


Lights

by thegrimshapeofyoursmile



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, NSFW, PWP, Tumblr Prompt, geraltxiorveth, gerveth, sex in front of a mirror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 09:34:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4386737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrimshapeofyoursmile/pseuds/thegrimshapeofyoursmile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a moment, there is wild shuffle on the floor as they bite and scratch and hit each other, and Iorveth finds himself panting harshly, his hard cock leaking through his pants, as Geralt finally pins him down with his entire weight and kisses him like a dying man. They kiss, and their shadows in the mirror kiss too, or maybe they devour each other instead. Iorveth claws and claws at Geralt’s shirt until it all comes off, tugs manically at his pants until he can hear the fabric tear with an utterly satisfying sound.// Gerveth, sex in front of a mirror, shameless PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lights

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt "Geralt/Iorveth, against a mirror". Well...it's sex in front of a mirror because I got carried away. I'm sorry, Anon. orz Hope someone enjoys this nevertheless!

“Come on,” Geralt growls, but Iorveth struggles heavily in his grip, almost slipping out of it before Geralt gets ahold of him again and presses his back against his chest. Iorveth can feel every single heavy heave of his chest, feels it vibrating through the muscles and nerves of his back, feels Geralt’s breath on his shoulder, and then he gets kissed. He tries to escape the grip again, but today Geralt is having none of it. Instead, he drags him over in front of the huge mirror and pulls the red headband away. Iorveth curses him and spits out his name together with dozens of curses, but the red bandana slowly, almost gently glides onto the floor where it lays like a pool of red blood. He closes his eye and digs his fingernails deep enough into Geralt’s thighs for it to draw blood, which is just as well. Geralt only trembles slightly, then he sinks his teeth into Iorveth’s shoulder and keeps him there, one of his hands sliding downwards along Iorveth’s body. “Come on,” he says again, this time a harsh murmur accompanied by a nip on Iorveth’s sensitive ear that makes him cry out, “Look, Iorveth, look at yourself.”

“Fuck you,” Iorveth spits out between gritted teeth and breathes in heavily before his struggles get weaker and weaker, which has nothing to do with the way Geralt’s calloused, firm hands wander over his body, surprisingly gently, almost admiringly. It is hard to be mad at him when his kisses tickle Iorveth’s neck, when his breath is rough and warm and excited on his neck. In the half-dark of the dusty room, Geralt’s yellow eyes glow in the dark like those of a feral beast, and a feral beast he is, but his intentions are good and the way he wants to rip Iorveth apart is one they had agreed upon. Their eyes meet in the mirror, two yellow ones and a single green one, and they both have bodies that have been roughly touched by life, but together they almost resemble something beautiful. 

When his gaze almost dips lower than their faces, Iorveth curses Geralt again and tries to turn away from the mirror, but Geralt’s arm around his waist is firm and his fingers are fast and clever as he unbuckles Iorveth’s belt and strips him off his shirt. “You will look, and you will recognize how beautiful you are,” he mutters, and Iorveth wants to hit him, so he does, almost breaking Geralt’s nose in the process. For a moment, there is wild shuffle on the floor as they bite and scratch and hit each other, and Iorveth finds himself panting harshly, his hard cock leaking through his pants, as Geralt finally pins him down with his entire weight and kisses him like a dying man. They kiss, and their shadows in the mirror kiss too, or maybe they devour each other instead. Iorveth claws and claws at Geralt’s shirt until it all comes off, tugs manically at his pants until he can hear the fabric tear with an utterly satisfying sound. 

Geralt grunts, and maybe he is angry, but he gives no indication besides another sharp, passionate kiss, and their shadows in the mirror mingle until they become undistinguishable from each other, until they turn into one body, one writhing mass of lips and fingers and legs. Iorveth feels as if he cannot breathe, as if it is too much, and he does not know whether he is still angry or not because he does not want to be in front of this mirror, does not want to see himself, but Geralt forces him to, because Geralt thinks he deserves to be seen. Iorveth wants to smack him. Iorveth wants to suck him off. In the end, he does neither and instead wraps his legs around Geralt’s waist to keep him closer. He wants to use him as a shield, but Geralt does not let him; while he pushes one finger, slicked and prepared with oil hastily fished out of previously discarded pants, inside Iorveth, his free hand grasps his chin and turns his head until he can see.

And he does look, looks at them with open mouth as Geralt bends down and sucks one of his nipples between his lips, tongue curling around it while his finger pushes and pushes and Iorveth finally gives way and yields, back arching and legs spread. His hands tangle in Geralt’s long hair shimmering in the dark like moonshine, and their shadows dance and flicker in the mirror, dance and flicker and let him see what it looks like when Geralt looks at him, when he touches him and mouths “mine” against his nipple before latching onto the other, not letting go of them before Iorveth is panting and curses him again, this time in at least two different languages. A second finger joins and a burning sensation add to the feeling of their bodies being close enough to share the same sweat; his finger tangle more deeply into shimmering moonshine and he pulls, and pulls, enough to make Geralt groan and say his name, ever so quietly, but like a prayer. 

He is stretched without much mercy, but there are kisses heavy and hot, kisses placed on his lips and nose and cheeks and scars, mostly the scars; when he tries to shove Geralt away or at least turn his head, but Geralt grips his chin again and forces him to look into the mirror where yellow eyes meet his mangled gaze. He says nothing, only swears again, but it sounds quiet and without sting even to his own eyes. Iorveth can feel the ghost of a smile on his skin, and he can feel touch on his scarred cheek, and then there is a third finger inside him, thrusting forward and hitting the sensitive spot inside him, causing him to groan out a curse again. Geralt only chuckles like a madman, which is the best sign for how aroused he must be to let go of himself so much. When his cock, heavy and hot like Geralt’s kisses, rubs against his leg, Iorveth lifts it a little, pushing it directly between Geralt’s and taking immense satisfaction by watching the Witcher hump his leg like a rutting dog. 

Moments later, he feels lips on his own again, and this time he meets them without thinking much, tongue gliding between Geralt’s lips to get a taste while the fingers leave him. They dance, and the shadows in the mirror dance with them as Geralt’s cock pushes inside him, working through Iorveth’s tight muscles with patience and enough slick to make it enjoyable. And then, finally, Geralt is balls-deep inside him, and Iorveth digs his fingernails into his shoulders and hisses, “Move.” For a moment he thinks that Geralt will answer something sassy, but apparently the Witcher is too far gone himself because he only grunts and complies. He hits hard and precise enough to make him see stars with every thrust, and Iorveth thanks him by cursing him, his ancestors and everything he has ever loved in low, hissing Elder Speech, and Gerald burrows his head against his shoulder and moans as if he had told him how beautiful he was. 

Iorveth finds himself staring at the mirror without having been prompted before, and for a moment he hates himself for it, but it is difficult to hate when one is feeling so good, and feeling good he does; his head is light and his heart is too, and he wants more, craves more, and sees his need in the mirror where shadows reach for each other and mingle, light licking over their dark forms with every movement Geralt and Iorveth cause. Warmth builds in his stomach, builds and builds with every clear drop leaking from the tip of his cock, running through Geralt’s fingers as he grips his dick and strokes it with admirably even motions, and Iorveth forgets every thought about shadows in mirrors he has ever had when he comes with a breathy moan, spilling all over Geralt’s hand and arching up against him. Geralt fucks him steadily through his orgasm, not stopping afterwards; instead he pushes inside him until he comes to, his face buried against Iorveth’s shoulder with a small sigh that sounds almost relieved.

Iorveth watches the shadows blending into each other, lying motionless on the floor with heavily rising and sinking chests; his fingers find hair white as webbed moonshine and they tangle into it, slowly, gently, almost like a kiss.


End file.
